


your stars on my skin

by phantomunmasked



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Holby City
Genre: F/F, anyway enjoy i guess, idk guys the idea of bernie having tattoos just stuck, let me know if you like or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 12:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10020095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomunmasked/pseuds/phantomunmasked
Summary: Five tattoos that Bernie gets for her family (and one she doesn't).Or: Berenice Wolfe, and the constellations of those she loves.





	1. Mother (Aquarius)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely [janetfrasier's contest on tumblr ](http://janetfraiser.tumblr.com/post/156512216733). I took the five times format prompt and the stars theme and... this is what my brain came up with. Welp. It's quite Bernie centric, but hopefully still alright. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my brilliant, awesome braintwin[ lindsey_grissom ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom) (aka [ muddlethrough ](www.muddlethrough.tumblr.com)) for her beta-ing skills, and for her contributions towards some of the ideas here. 
> 
> Also thanks to [fortunatefolly ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatefolly/pseuds/fortunatefolly) for reading it through a couple times and telling me i'm not mad for doing this! 
> 
> As always, comments feed the author!

Her mother dies of breast cancer when Bernie is seventeen and three quarters. Bernie is inconsolable for a while, for she had always been closer to her mother than her taciturn father, so long in the military.  
  
  
He gives her little comfort, shuts himself in his room for 3 days and when he emerges it’s like she never existed in his life. Bernie rages against his dispassionate nature for months; does not understand how and why someone who had loved another all their life could simply...carry on like that.  
  
  
And so she rebels. In quiet unassuming ways, of course, because she never had been one for grand statements. 

  
She finds the tattoo parlour through a friend of a friend, an intense young man with a love for Byron that showed her his own ink - flowing script scrolled across his forearm, down the sweep of his back.

  
(she sleeps with him too, and tries to ignore the nagging feeling of how wrong it was)  
  
  
The young woman at the shop asks her what she wants, patiently watches her through a haze of blue smoke as Bernie flicks through a tattered plastic folder of roses, vines and angel wings.  
  
  
Nothing quite catches her fancy and she says so.  
  
  
“What’re you getting the tattoo for then?” she asks, Cockney accent harsh but kind.  
  
  
“Oh erm… For my… For my dead mother, I guess.”   
  
  
Bernie hugs herself protectively and lifts one shoulder in a shrug, suddenly self-conscious.   
  
  
“I see. I’m sorry. What about something she liked? Her favourite flower?” 

  
“A calla lily…”  
  
  
“Would that do, then?”   
  
  
Bernie wrinkles her nose.  
  
  
“Favourite phrase?” 

  
“Fortune favours the brave,” Bernie murmurs.   
  
  
“How ‘bout that?” 

  
Bernie shakes her head; furrows her brow as the young woman shifts, shirt slipping a little on her shoulder.  
  
  
“What’s that?” Bernie blurts, before she can help herself.  
  
  
“What, this?”   
  
  
The woman tugs the shirt further aside and Bernie has to stop herself from reaching out, from tracing the stars and lines.  
  
  
“That’s the constellation of Ursa Minor,” she says, and pauses, studies Bernie for a long moment.   
  
  
“It was my girlfriend’s favourite constellation,” she murmurs, a confession, and Bernie tears her eyes away from the dark lines, the tiny little stars.  
  
  
“Was?” she asks, stays her tongue before it could ask the first question upon it.  
  
  
_Girlfriend?_  
  
  
The woman nods, smiles gently.  
  
  
“She died,” came the response, and Bernie finds herself on autopilot murmuring “I’m so sorry for your loss,” wringing her hands together.  
  
  
“What was your mum’s horoscope?” the woman asks, and Bernie nearly weeps that she does not know.   
  
  
“Her birthday was… the 12th of February?”

  
“Aquarius, then,” the woman confirms, and drags a pad of paper towards her, sketches out the brief lines and stars.   


Bernie studies them, tilts her head.   
  
  
“How ‘bout this, then?” comes the gentle question, and Bernie nods.   
  
  
“Alright,” she says, and smiles back as the woman takes her hand, takes her behind the beaded curtain.

 

 

And that is how Berenice Griselda Wolfe gets her first tattoo.

 


	2. The Brigadier (Taurus)

It seemed fitting that her second tattoo would be her in memory of her father. Her father the Brigadier, who had in life been a Taurus, bullheaded and bold. 

  
He had been proud of her, in the end. Realised the value of talking about things instead of bottling things in. Had been proud his only daughter had decided to follow Wolfe tradition and join the armed forces, had succeeded where her two brothers had failed.   
  
  
(how much of that was the creeping Alzheimer’s and how much of that his own remorse, she did not know; will never know)   
  
  
As she had with her mother, she gets it upon the Brigadier’s death, two weeks before she is to be first posted away from home on assignment (Operation Banner, in Northern Ireland). She made the decision to get it, on that final, quiet day when he passed, drove to the same tattoo parlour in Stepney. 

  
The young woman with her girlfriend’s constellation on her shoulder was grown now, but so was Bernie, and her smile was the same warm salve that it had been, seven years ago.   
  
  
(Marcus had wanted to come with her and she had told him _no, this is something I have to do on my own,_ and she knew in her bones she was right the moment she stepped back into the tiny shop)  
  
  
“Hello,” Bernie mutters, shoves her hands in her pockets, glances up through her fringe.   
  
  
“Hello,” comes the reply, and Bernie blushes at the compassion, the strange familiarity in that smoke-dark voice.   
  
  
The woman was wearing a turtleneck jumper today, but Bernie cannot help glancing briefly at her shoulder, where _ursa minor_ lurked.  
  
  
“What can I do for you then, Miss Aquarius?"  
  
  
Bernie flushes, tugs her hands out her pocket to wring her hands.   
  
  
“I...Taurus, this time,” she mutters, and scuffs her shoe against the floor, suddenly unable to bear the warm kindness of the woman’s scrutiny.   
  
  
“I see. And who…?”   
  
  
“The Brig...Erm. My father,” Bernie replies, and blushes when she feels a warm hand on her cheek, nimble fingers tilting her chin up.   
  
  
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the woman murmurs, and Bernie closes her eyes as warm lips brush across her cheek, as she is drawn into a close embrace.  
  
  
As before, the woman takes her hand with a smile, leads her behind the beaded curtain.   
  
  
(only this time, they continue on and up the stairs, Bernie spending the afternoon learning the story behind every one of the woman’s tattoos, tracing irreverent lines with her fingers and then later, her tongue)   
  
  
She gets her father’s constellation right below her mother’s cluster of stars, on her left side.   
  
  
“Seems only fitting they be reunited,” the woman murmurs, as she carefully wraps Bernie’s torso, breath warm on her collarbone.   
  
  
Bernie looks into those depthless grey eyes, and nods, feels her heart clench.  
  
  
“Yes,” she replies.  
  
  
“I suppose it is.”

 


	3. Cameron (Leo)

Cameron.  
  
  
Her son. Her brave, little lion man.  
  
  
It had been a difficult labour, twenty hours of sweating and cursing and crushed fingers.  
  
  
But finally, _finally_ he was here, and she nearly wept for it.  
  
  
“Hello, you,” she murmurs, cradles him against her chest. Marcus hovers nearby, a warm smile creasing his tired face.  
  
  
“He’s perfect, Bern,” Marcus rumbles, strokes a gentle finger across his cheek.   
  
  
“Mmm. And so tiny,” Bernie replies, holding her son closer.  
  
  
_I’ll protect you,_ she promises, as he yawns, sleepily opening his eyes, chubby fists bumping against her chin.  
  
  
_I’ll love you, no matter what.  
  
  
_ She closes her eyes and leans back, sighing bereft when the nurse comes and takes him.   
  
  
“Cam…” She murmurs, and Marcus soothes her, presses a kiss to her sweaty forehead.  
  
  
“Shhh. Rest now, Bern. He’s safe.”  
  
  
Marcus gives her shoulder a squeeze and she hums, non-committally, exhaustion creeping up on her.  
  
  
“My precious little lion,” she sighs, and falls asleep, dreams of her son, dark haired, handsome and lithe, first a child and then a man, tall and proud and true.   
  
  
She wakes the next morning with a smile despite the residual pain coursing through her. Resolves, as she did with her mother and the Brigadier, that she would have her son’s stars on her skin, for he was as much her flesh (if not more) as she had been her parents’.  
  
  
(family, to have and to hold close to her heart - indelible, so much more permanent than a photo, a letter; when she inevitably ran, fled to battlefields and field hospitals hungry for escape. She doesn’t question why she does not bear Marcus’ mark. Never did. Never will.)  
  
  
And so to Stepney she goes again, once Cameron is old enough to be left alone for an afternoon, wreathed in smiles and an odd sense of determined calm.  
  
  
“Hello,” the woman says, when she sees Bernie, brow already creased in preparation for a condolence she must surely offer.  
  
  
But Bernie shakes her head, grins at the floor whilst shyly tucking long blonde behind an ear.  
  
  
“Oh? Is that a smile I spy? Well then, what can I do you for this time?”   
  
  
Mirth winds its cautious way through the woman’s voice, and Bernie reaches into her purse, digs out a creased, well-loved photo of her darling son.  
  
  
“This is my son,” Bernie says, slightly breathless, and the woman frowns for a brief moment, takes in the flash of gold on Bernie’s left hand, runs a quick finger over the image of Cameron.  
  
  
“I see. And… What? You want his face inked on you?”   
  
  
The woman’s grey eyes flash challenge at Bernie and quite unbidden she laughs, a great honk-bark that has the woman blinking in surprise before she too giggles.  
  
  
“Goodness, _no!_ I’m a surgeon, I know what tattoos look like as a body ages. And I’ve seen enough old tattoos on men in the field to know some of them _really_ don’t age well.”  
  
  
The woman chortles, folds her arms and cocks her head, considers Bernie as she takes a drag on her half-smoked cigarette.  
  
  
“So…?”   
  
  
“Stars,” Bernie beams, and the woman nods her understanding.  
  
  
“He’s a Leo,” Bernie breathes, as she carefully puts the photo away, lacing and unlacing her fingers in the smallest betrayal of anxiety.  
  
  
“Ah, a brave little lion, is he?” the woman teases, and Bernie blushes, nods with pride.   
  
  
“Come on, then. You know the drill,” she smirks, and smiles a beautiful smile, holds back the beaded curtain, nods at Bernie to precede her.  
  
  
“On my right side,” Bernie says, and the woman pauses, bobs her head thoughtfully as she finishes sketching the lines and stars.  
  
  
“For death, and for life. Symmetry. I like that,” the woman says, as she prepares the needle, glances at Bernie’s face one last time before she sets it to flesh.  
  
  
“Ready?”  
  
  
Bernie takes a deep breath, thinks of her beautiful, brilliant son.  
  
  
_My blood; my life; my all._  
  
  
  
“Always.”


	4. Charlotte (Capricorn)

Her daughter comes into the world in the middle of a winter storm.  
  
  
It had been an easier labour than with Cameron, a mere eight hours of agony before it was all over.   
  
  
“Ah, there you are,” Bernie said, as they placed Charlotte in her arms, swaddled warm and tight.  
  
  
“She’s beautiful, Bernie,” Marcus says, fingers their daughter’s tiny wisp of hair with gentle fondness.  
  
  
“Mmm, yes. Yes, she is,” Bernie agrees, tweaking Charlotte’s nose as she sneezes, smiles as she presses a soft kiss to her daughter’s crown.  
  
  
She lifts her head, gazes wearily around the delivery room.  
  
  
“Is it still snowing?” Bernie asks, shivers at the thought of any other expectant mothers in labour having to struggle through the terrible weather as she had to.   
  
  
“I’m not sure. Probably. Why?” Marcus’ confusion was well-founded, Bernie reasoned, but she only shrugged, looked down into the dark, solemn eyes staring curiously up at her.   
  
  
“Born in a winter storm,” she murmurs, strokes a finger down Charlotte’s soft cheek. Her daughter sneezes again and Bernie chuckles, hefting her precious bundle to rest a little higher up her chest.   
  
  
“Whatever am I going to do with you?” Bernie murmurs, as she falls asleep. 

  
(does not know that she will ask herself that same question with varying degrees of frustration over the years)   
  
  
As she had with Cameron she makes the trip into Stepney, waves a photo of her beautiful daughter at the woman.  
  
  
“Congratulations,” she laughs, and claps Bernie on the shoulder, grins as Bernie blushes.  
  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
  
“So, what’s this little one’s sign, then?”  
  
  
“She’s a Capricorn,” Bernie offers, and furrows her brow as the woman cackles.  
  
  
“Ooh. She’s a right handful sometimes, then? Headstrong, precocious little thing, is she?”   
  
  
“I-” Bernie opens her mouth to protest and promptly snaps her jaw shut, scowling.   
  
  
“Don’t worry, I only know from personal experience,” the woman winks, nods at a framed photo of a pair of smiling twins.  
  
  
“Yours?” Bernie asks, curious.  
  
  
“Nah. My sister’s little tykes. I take care of them sometimes, when she’s too exhausted. Both Capricorns, both right little buggers when they’ve got it in their heads that they’re right. And gods help us, they usually are,” the woman says, fondly, and Bernie frowns, brow creasing as she contemplates her future with a potentially difficult child.  
  
  
“Oh dear,” she murmurs, absently, and the woman laughs again, takes Bernie’s limp hand.  
  
  
“Come on, then. Right side, below Mr Little Lion man’s?”   
  
  
Bernie allows herself to be tugged along, swats at the beaded curtain as it swings into her face.   
  
  
“You know it is,” she mutters, shooting the woman a dark look as she giggles, again.   
  
  
“I’m sure she’ll be perfectly lovely, your daughter will be,” the woman grins, and Bernie sighs, strips off her top.  
  
  
“Damn right, she will,” she growls, settling down in the chair.   
  
  
“Arm up,” the woman sing-songs, patting Bernie’s forearm.   
  
  
“I’ll make sure she is,” Bernie mutters, mind already flitting to boarding schools and strict schoolmarms.   
  
  
“Careful there, soldier. Haven’t you ever heard the saying that if you love something, you should let it go? Else it’s just gonna break on you,” the woman chuckles, laying down the pattern to be inked.   
  
  
“Yes, well. That’s for other...people,” Bernie says, waving her left hand dismissively, settling it back down on her belly.   
  
  
“If you say so, Captain. Ready?”   
  
  
Bernie takes a deep breath, thinks of her precocious, bright, strong-willed daughter.   
  
  
_So much like me, my little one.  
_

_  
Time will tell if that serves us both well. _

  
“Bring it on.” 


	5. Kate (Virgo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I did the thing. Made Kate Lethbridge-Stewart Bernie's cousin. Just...well just because.
> 
> Not gonna lie, this chapter feels a little cracky...But enjoy, I guess?

Her cousin makes a rather unexpected and undignified reappearance in her life atop a gurney.  
  
  
“Kate?!”  
  
  
“Ah. Hello, Bernie,” comes the reply, and Bernie can feel the silence in her immediate vicinity as people slow and take a proper look at their newest patient.  
  
  
“What are you _doing_ here?”   
  
  
The question slips out before Bernie can process the inanity of it.  
  
  
“I’m getting my nails done. What does it _look_ like, Bernie?”   
  
  
Bernie shoves her hands helplessly into her pockets and scowls.  
  
  
“I didn’t know you had been deployed here.”  
  
  
“Yes well, covert reconnaissance and all that.”  
  
  
Kate moves to shrug and then hisses in pain, no doubt because of the obvious dislocation she had suffered.  
  
  
“Stay still. I’ll get you some pain relief.”   
  
  
“Bernie, wait. Did they… Did they bring in anyone else with me? A young woman, glasses, dark hair...bowtie?”  
  
  
Bernie pauses, looks down at that (far too) familiar face, creased in concern and pain.  
  
  
“I don’t know. I’ll find out.”  
  
  
Kate’s smile is gratitude itself.   
  


* * *

  
Months later, when they are safely back on English soil and Bernie’s biggest immediate concern is how well her hydrangeas are coping with the weather, she finds herself a houseguest of her cousin’s. 

 

“So,” Bernie says, sipping the tumbler of whiskey Kate had generously provided her with. 

 

“So,” Kate hums, agreeably, and sips from her own glass. 

 

They are seated directly opposite each other in matching armchairs. Bernie snorts slightly when she pauses to think, realises that anyone walking in would probably have thought they were hallucinating. 

 

“What were you doing in Kandahar, then?”  
  
  
“Oh, this and that. Covert missions, don’t you know,” Kate said, airily, smiling that immutable, inscrutable smile.  
  
  
“Covert missions for whom?” 

  
“Can’t tell you that. Classified,” Kate says, eyes glinting amber in the setting sun streaming through the window. 

 

“Bullshit. I am regularly briefed on any and all missions in the area so I can have a reliable estimate as to how well-staffed I need to be,” Bernie fires back. 

 

“Really? And yet, Major, you seem to be _constantly_ understaffed,” Kate says, calmly.  
  
  
Bernie growls.  
  
  
“No, no, I take that back, I know that you suffered casualties the week before my mission in the region.”  
  
  
“What? But how?”   
  
  
Kate takes a long sip of her whiskey, looks at Bernie consideringly.  
  
  
“Brigadier Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart,” Kate says, suddenly, and Bernie frowns, raises and eyebrow.  
  
  
“Uncle Gordon? But hasn’t he passed…?”  
  
  
“Mmm. Yes."  
  
  
“What about him?”  
  
  
“How much do you know about what he did?”  
  
  
“Brigadier, retired well-decorated? Worked a lot with the science boffins at the MOD?”  
  
  
“That’s certainly one way of putting it,” Kate says, and drains her glass, sets it down on the coffee table with a _crack_.  
  
  
“I’m not following you.”  
  
  
“Hmm.” Kate looks at Bernie for a long moment, head cocked in an extremely familiar manner  
  
  
“...what?”  
  
  
“Oh nothing. Just thinking about how much I can trust you. And if I would have to wipe your memory if you weren’t amenable to my suggestion, in which case this would be a futile exercise anyway and I shouldn’t waste my time.” 

  
“... _WHAT?!”  
  
  
_ “Mmmm. I suppose you did save Osgood and I with  minimal questions asked…” Kate murmurs, and then nods, once, decisively.  
  
  
“Kate, what on earth are you talking about?” 

  
“Why, funny you should put it like that, cousin mine.”  
  
  
“... …”  
  
  
“Come along,” Kate declares, rather more cheerily than Bernie was comfortable with.  
  
  
Body on autopilot, Bernie follows Kate through to her study, and can only gape when a concealed panel slides open as her cousin tilts the frame of her father’s portrait to the right, and then to the left.  
  
  
“Osgood always had a sense of humour,” Kate muses, motioning for Bernie to follow her through.  
  
  
“...”  
  
  
“Welcome to my home office, cousin mine. Try not to touch anything, there are a few non-Earth specimens and a couple of Osgood’s more rigorous prototypes lying around. I’ve erected the necessary safety protocols, of course, but one can never be too safe.”  
  
  
“... _Non-Earth?!”_

 _  
_ “Mmm, yes. Or things not from this timeline. That, for example, was a gift from Captain Jack Harkness… from the 51st century.”  
  
  
Kate points at an innocent looking leather strap, bulky around the middle.  
  
  
“...” 

  
“Don’t forget to breathe,” Kate sing songs, as she sinks into her chair, boots up the bank of monitors before her.  
  
  
Bernie blinks and scowls, stomping to stand at her cousin’s shoulder.  
  
  
“So, what are you, then? The UK’s answer to Mulder and Scully?”   
  
  
“Mmm, more like the world’s. I’m the Chief Scientific Officer of U.N.I.T., which really is an international organisation. I was based in Geneva, for a while.”  
  
  
“...”   
  
  
“Speaking of Mulder and Scully, thank you for reminding me. Osgood and I were doing a rewatch the other day and I really need to speak to the producers of the show at some point; some of their creatures are suspiciously similar to some of the off-world visitors we had in the 80s and 90s.”  
  
  
“ _Off-world visitors_?!"  
  
  
“Yes. Right, ok, now you’re up to speed-” 

  
Bernie sputters.  
  
  
“-how would you like to join us, just for a spell? The Doctor’s been dropping in every other week moaning about the Master coming back as a woman and frankly, I could do with some back up dealing with his new grumpy Scottish arse.”  
  
  
“...” 

  
“Bernie. Breathe. Take it as...a secondment from the RAMC. I can sort the paperwork. What do you say, cousin mine, surely it’s time for an adventure?”    
  
  
Kate leans forward in her chair, peers up at Bernie with her hands steepled under her chin. 

 

Bernie swallows, blinks and thinks about her life. 

 

_ With Marcus, and the kids and her hydrangeas and so, so many unspoken dreams. _

 

Feels the burn and itch to run, to scream at the inanity of how everything just... _ was _ . 

 

Looks into her cousin’s eyes and nods, once. 

 

“I’ll have your back if you’ll have mine,” is all she says, and Kate grins, leaps to her feet. Clasps Bernie’s hand in her own.    
  
  
  
“Welcome to U.N.I.T., Major.” 

* * *

Bernie spends a total of two years, four months and seventeen days seconded to U.N.I.T.. In that span of time she develops an extensive knowledge of Silurian genetics, a great appreciation for the genius that is Osgood (and her sister), and a sneaking suspicion that her cousin might, just  _ might _ , be skirting the line of insane. 

  
“Spend too much time with the Doctor, you lot do,” Bernie mutters, as she blinks through her concussion, smacks Kate’s shoulder with an open palm in mild irritation.  
  
  
“Well you’re in one piece, aren’t you? I did promise to have your back, and have it I did,” Kate reasons, far too calmly, as she hurtles them across the landscape in a modified Range Rover.  
  
  
“Yes, but for how long, Kate? I mean - _we’re still being shot at_ , in case that escaped your notice. By some very angry _pre-historic lizard people._ For goodness sake, I’m a doctor, not an action woman!” 

  
Kate’s only response is to swerve violently to the right, and Bernie swears as she clutches at her sore head.  
  
  
“I hate you so much,” she growls, and Kate simply smirks and tosses an Osgood-approved syringe of something at Bernie as she careens around another corner.  
  
  
“Still gonna get that tattoo then? Since you hate me so much?” 

  
Bernie huffs as she plunges the syringe into her thigh, grits her teeth as she feels the concoction of wonderdrugs (she didn’t want to know if they were fully Earth in origin) work its way through her battered system.  
  
  
“A promise is a promise, _cousin_ ,” Bernie manages, through chattering teeth as Kate cheerily bounces them over a gravel path.  
  
  
“I wouldn’t think any less of you if you didn’t want to, Bernie. I know what the others mean. They’re blood.”  
  
  
Bernie’s response is automatic, jolted from her as they crash over a moderately sized boulder.  
  
  
“ _You are blood.”  
  
  
_ Kate’s wide-eyed reply is swallowed by the sound of a helicopter descending on them.  
  
  


* * *

Later, after they’ve both been poked and prodded by Osgood and her sister, the cousins share a whiskey, silently toast each other.  
  
  
“So,” Bernie murmurs, and is struck all at once with the ridiculous deja vu of the situation.  
  
  
“So,” Kate agrees, and they both stare at each other for a long moment before they both burst out laughing, honk-bark chuckles sending them both into the world’s most bizarre feedback loop.  
  
  
“I mean what I said, y’know. I wouldn’t think less of you just because you don’t honour that bet you lost,” Kate says, sipping her whiskey, watching her cousin with solemn eyes.  
  
  
Bernie shakes her head.  
  
  
“I want to. You _are_ blood. And… you’ve done so much for me. You and Osgood and U.N.I.T. and The Doctor… i’m not sure what i’d be without you.”  
  
  
“Much less bruised and battered and probably a lot less frustrated at a certain Time Lord’s ways.”  
  
  
“True, but i’d also be so much poorer for it,” Bernie replies, and looks directly into Kate’s eyes, thinks of their late night confessions and confidences stolen in between missions.  
  
  
“Would you… would you let me come? And watch? I feel oddly proprietary, cousin mine. After all, it _is_ my sign you’re getting inked.”  
  
  
Kate’s blush belies her trepidation, and Bernie beams, reaches out to take Kate’s hand in a firm handshake.  
  
  
“Deal,” she says, and that, is how the two of them find themselves in a familiar little studio in Stepney.

 

* * *

“Well well well, what do we have here? Twins? As I live and breathe! You never told me how attractive your sister was, _Captain!”  
  
  
_ Bernie flushes, attempts to stammer that _no, wait-she’s not my sister-wait, what-aTtRactIVE?!  
  
  
__“_ Actually, she’s been promoted to Major, now. Kate Stewart, by the way, how lovely to meet you. You must be the brilliant artist that’s done such fine work on my cousin here.”  
  
  
“Cousin, eh?”  
  
  
“Yes, and the subject of your next commission for our big macho army medic here, it would seem.”  
  
  
“What? I thought you didn’t do faces? Anyway wouldn’t it be _just a little weird to -_ begging your pardon Ms Stewart - _basically have your own face tattooed on you?!”  
  
  
_ Bernie flushes even deeper, an alarming shade of purple-red that has Kate taking mercy on her.  
  
  
“I think she meant to get my star sign, actually  Y’know, carrying on the family tradition and all that.”  
  
  
Bernie scowls.  
  
  
“I’m a Virgo, if that helps,” Kate says, cheerily, and the woman cackles, drags her trusty sketchpad and pencil towards her.  
  
  
“Oh yes, that helps tremendously,” she crows, and gamely says nothing as she watches Kate pat a beet-red Bernie on the shoulder.  
  
  
Bernie sulks the whole way through getting her fifth tattoo, is grateful that she chose to get it on her shoulder, just so she was face-down and did not have to suffer the indignity of having to _look_ at the two women currently bantering about her overhead.  
  
  
“-and Charlotte gets really freaked out when I come over to visit, because apparently i’m ‘ _like mum, only funnier and cooler’_.”  
  
  
“You are not!” comes Bernie’s muffled protest. The woman chortles and gets started on another line.  
  
  
“Cam loves me, of course, though I’m sure that’s because I bring Gordy over too. Goodness knows what mischief they get up to.”   
  
  
“Digging up my flowerbeds to search for specimens to dissect on my kitchen table!”  
  
  
Again, Bernie’s reply is barely audible and Kate smirks, pats Bernie on the calf.  
  
  
“And I made them clean up after themselves. Got to instill good lab habits in them from a young age!”  
  
  
The woman laughs as Bernie not so subtly flips her cousin off.  
  
  
“There, all done. You know the drill, Major, keep the wraps on for today, don’t go swimming for the next couple days, blah blah.”  
  
  
“Yes, thank you,” Bernie huffs, as she levers herself up, snatches her loose blouse from Kate’s waiting fingers.  
  
  
“Ceasefire?”   
  
  
Kate’s eyes are sparkling with amused affection and Bernie scowls, takes her cousin’s offered hand.  
  
  
“Fine, cousin mine. Ceasefire. But only if you buy me a pint.”  
  
  
“A small price to pay,” Kate concedes, gallantly, and Bernie grins, forgives her cheek.  
  
  
“Go get the car, i’ll just settle up here and we can go,” Bernie nods, fishing in her coat for her wallet.  
  
  
“Alright. Lovely meeting you,” Kate waves at the woman, who winks and waves back.  
  
  
“How much do I owe you?” Bernie rummages around, flattening out creased note after creased note on counter.  
  
  
“Nothing, if you give me your cousin’s number,” the woman smirks, and Bernie’s head whips up, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.  
  
  
“Hey, can’t blame a girl for trying, eh?”  
  
  
“She-she-”  
  
  
“What? Is she married? Didn’t see a ring.” 

  
“No, she-”  
  
  
“Not of the Sapphic persuasion? Funny, thought I could sense it coming off her in waves,” the woman muses, scratches her temple in thought.  
  
  
“Not that-” 

  
“Then?”    
  


“OSGOOD!”   
  
  
The woman blinks.  
  
  
“Os-what?” 

  
Bernie takes a deep breath, thrusts a handful of cash at the woman. 

  
“Osgood. She...I think Kate and her are a...thing.”  
  
  
“Ah. So I _do_ have a chance?” 

  
Bernie pauses, thinks about the bond she witnessed between her cousin and her young assistant time and again, over the past two years, the subtle gestures and quiet pride each had for the other.  
  
  
“No. No, I don’t think so. Sorry.”  
  
  
The woman shrugs, takes the rejection with good grace. 

  
“Ah well. As I said, can’t blame a girl for trying.”    
  


“I’m sure you’ll find someone,” Bernie intones, is aware of how trite the words sound.    
  


“C’est la vie. It is what it is. Life’s too short to simply wait around for things to happen” the woman says, and winks, accepting Bernie’s payment with a toothy grin.  
  
  
“It is,” Bernie murmurs, and smiles as she hears the familiar toot of her cousin’s car horn.

  
“It most certainly is.” 


	6. Serena (Libra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one time Bernie gets a tattoo for one not related to her by blood. 
> 
> Or: Serena, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this, y'all. It's been quite fun to write. Hope you like! :) 
> 
> This chapter is un-beta-ed, so any and all mistakes (especially grammatical, since I wrote this in fits and bursts) are mine and mine alone!

Serena cackles, actually cackles out loud the day she finds out Berenice Griselda Wolfe, famed trauma surgeon and the bravest, most fantastic doctor in the hospital believed in horoscopes.  
  
  
“But surely you know they’re all a bunch of rubbish?”  
  
  
“Yes, well-”  
  
  
“I mean, what a completely arbitrary way of judging someone!”  
  
  
“Hey! So you don’t agree, Ms Campbell, that ‘ _being a libra born on 1 october, your creativity, diplomacy and warmth are the most dominant parts of your personality’_?”  
  
  
Bernie rattles off the first line of the description from the website, smirks as she watches Serena’s ego battle with her adamant belief that astrology was twaddle.  
  
  
“Well I wouldn’t say-”  
  
  
“Or that you _‘thrive in a group setting’_ , and that when there is a disagreement or argument _‘you often use your creativity to be a successful mediator or problem solver’_? Ah ah- you can’t deny at least part of this is true, i’ve seen you at fundraisers _and_ in the boardroom, Serena.  
  
  
“But I-”   
  
  
“Do you, in _‘all your social interactions, try to maintain a warm and friendly demeanor’_?”  
  
  
“Only to those who deserve it,” Serena mutters, folding her arms with a scowl.  
  
  
“See? As a starting template, not too bad a jumping off point, no?” Bernie crows, smugly.  
  
  
“Whatever. Even working with that as a baseline, surely you must realise the varying degrees of deviance would render such presumptions nugatory in almost every case?”   
  
  
“If you say so,” Bernie murmurs, eyes glinting as she stealthily approaches Serena, drops a kiss on her cheek.  
  
  
“Stop that,” Serena chides, swatting ineffectually at Bernie’s shoulder.  
  
  
“Besides, I’ve not heard complaints from you when you saw my tattoos,” Bernie whispers, gently nibbling on Serena’s earlobe as she creeps closer, wraps her arms about Serena’s waist.  
  
  
“What tattoos?” Serena’s feigned innocence is rather betrayed by a breathy moan, and nimble fingers tracing the lines on Bernie’s shoulder, through the fabric of her scrubs.  
  
  
“Don’t pretend, Ms Campbell. I’ve seen you staring at them in the locker room,” Bernie murmurs, slipping her own hands under Serena’s camisole, thumbs tracing circles on bare skin.  
  
  
“Whatever can you mean, Ms Wolfe?” 

  
Serena arches her neck, dares Bernie to make a mark with tongue and teeth as she shifts, slides her fingers up Bernie’s sides until she is touching the constellations on Bernie’s ribs.    
  


“Innocence does not become you, Serena,” Bernie grits out, as Serena smoulders at her, wicked smirk on her lips as she kisses Bernie, full of purpose.  
  
  
“How was I to know that your tattoos were constellations? They just look like random lines and spots, from a distance,” Serena pouts, and Bernie huffs.  
  
  
“Oh for goodness- would you like to see them up close, then?” she mutters, and they both freeze, simultaneously register what Bernie meant.  
  
  
“I-Serena-uh-”   
  
  
“Bernie-”  
  
  
They pause, stare wide-eyed at each other.  
  
  
Bernie takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Feels Serena’s hands warm on her sides, over the ink on her skin.  
  
  
_Life’s too short.  
  
  
_ “Dinner?”   
  
  
“Tonight?”  
  
  
“My place?”  
  
  
“Okay,” Serena breathes, and they both grin a little, in relief.  
  
  
“What do you fancy, then?”   
  
  
Serena’s eyes glint in a way that suggest _you, you and only you_ , but she smiles, instead, and shrugs.  
  
  
“Up to you.” 

* * *

 

  
Bernie nods.  
  
  
“I,uh- gotta call Alan. Tell him to have Jason over for tonight,” Serena says, after a beat.

  
“Alright,” Bernie says, and steps back, reaches out to tug Serena’s blouse back into place.  
  
  
The moment is shattered by Morven, knocking curtly before she sticks her head into their office, barks “Trauma call!” before dashing back out, delivering orders almost as efficiently as Bernie. 

  
“That girl’s going to go far,” Bernie observes, proudly, and Serena nods in agreement, jerks her head as she sees Bernie’s hands flex against the fabric of her scrub pockets, fists curling and uncurling in anticipation.  
  
  
“Go. Page me if you need help, i’ll keep the ward running.” 

  
Bernie gives Serena a grateful smile and strides out onto the ward, every inch the proverbial commanding officer.  
  
  
“Well now, boys and girls, let’s see what fine mess has Holby decided to throw us this fine morning…”

 

* * *

Later, sprawled on Bernie’s sofa sated and drowsy after a truly heroic amount of Thai food, Serena reaches over to thump Bernie in the gut. Bernie grunts but doesn’t move from her slumped position, only turns her head to glare.  
  
  
“Come on, then. Top off, I was promised a closer look at your tattoos.”  
  
  
“Really?!”   
  
  
“I’m waiting, Ms Wolfe.”  
  
  
Bernie stares.  
  
  
“You do know I meant that you’d see them...in a more intimate context, right?”  
  
  
Her voice barely shakes and Serena smiles, pats Bernie’s belly a little more gently.  
  
  
“Yes, I did. But… I didn’t think you’d still want to? Not after that marathon surgery session today,” she says, scooting closer to Bernie.  
  
  
Bernie stares some more. Serena blinks and stammers.  
  
  
“Unless...Unless you wanted to? I mean, I don’t want to force you-us into anything that we’re not prepared for, don’t want you to think that i’m expecting-mmfh”  
  
  
Bernie interrupts her with a kiss.  
  
  
“Whatever did I do to deserve you, Serena Campbell?”   
  
  
Serena only beams, and steals another quick kiss.  
  
  
“Exist. Now, are you going to take your top off or not, Major?” 

  
Bernie laughs, wraps her fingers around the hand still resting on her tummy.  
  
  
“Not in my living room, i’m not,” she replies, and stifles a yawn against Serena’s shoulder.  
  
  
“All talk, no action, are we?” 

  
“Hey! I thought I was a ‘big macho army medic’?”  
  
  
“Only in theatre, dear,” Serena hums, and stands, tugs Bernie off the couch. 

  
“Will you stay?” Bernie asks, shyly, looks at the floor.  
  


Serena pauses.  
  
  
“Only if you want me to.” 

  
Bernie nods.  
  
  
“Come on then. Slobby pyjamas and cuddles await.” 

  
“Serena, I-uh… probably won’t have anything you could borrow? I mean… I…uh-”  
  
  
“Words would be useful,  _ Berenice _ .”  
  
  
“I sleep in a pair of boxers and not much else,” Bernie mutters, sheepishly.  
  
  
Serena practically  _ glows _ in delight.  
  
  
“ _ Excellent _ ,” she breathes, and drags Bernie towards her bedroom, before she can protest.  


* * *

They take turns in the shower, Bernie taking the time to dig through her drawers until she emerges with a pair of Marcus’ old jogging bottoms (nights were cold in Afghanistan) and the oversized RAMC t-shirt she wears to work out sometimes.

  
Just in case.  
  
  
“I think those might fit,” she says, shyly, as Serena emerges from the bathroom, pink skinned and wrapped in Bernie’s good towel.   
  
  
“Thank you,” Serena chirps, drops a kiss on Bernie’s cheek as they pass each other.  
  
  
Bernie blushes and ducks her head, grabs her sleep shorts from the chair as she steps into the bathroom. She showers, quick and efficient, and musters the courage to step back out into her bedroom clad only in her boxers and a towel draped over her shoulders.  
  
  
“Mmm… Yes,” Serena’s voice is hazy with langour and no small amount of lust, and Bernie feels oddly buoyed by it, holds Serena’s hooded gaze with trembling determination.  
  
  
Bernie tosses the towel aside; Serena licks her lips.  
  
  
“Come here,” Serena says, and Bernie complies, mind short-circuited as the covers are tossed back and - _oh_ ; Serena’s torso is as bare as hers and the glory of it all is nearly too much.  
  
  
“Serena,” Bernie breathes, as she slips into bed, reaches out but dares not touch.  
  
  
“Bernie,” Serena rumbles, and tugs Bernie’s hand to rest on her sternum, encourages her with a kiss to move closer, brushes her own fingers up Bernie’s bare sides.  
  
  
When they break apart Bernie is straddling Serena, and she stares down at her, head spinning, breath coming in ragged gasps.  
  
  
“I believe was promised a closer look at some tattoos,” Serena murmurs, hands warm on Bernie’s thighs.  
  
  
“Serena,” Bernie repeats, a little helplessly, and Serena laughs, a rich dark sound that draws a strangled groan from the woman astride her.   
  
  
“I meant it, you know. I know they mean a lot to you… Let me see them, and then… tell me about them?”  
  
  
Serena’s hands drift upwards, stroke reverently at the dark ink across Bernie’s ribs, and she stares earnest into Bernie’s wide eyes as she bites her bottom lip, brow furrowed a little in insecurity.  
  
  
Bernie smiles, softly, and feels her heart quiver as she moves to brush Serena’s little tuft of a fringe off her forehead, places a quick kiss there.  
  
  
“I’ll just put the lights on for a while, then?”   
  
  
Serena nods.  
  
  
Bernie scrambles off Serena, goes to flick on the overhead lights. Serena scooches to the edge of the bed, smiles encouragingly at Bernie to move closer.  
  
  
“Which was the first?” She asks, and Bernie takes her hand, kisses each fingertip, guides it to her mother’s mark, high on her left flank.  
  
  
“This one,” she says, and sighs, relaxes into the tale of her calmly rebellious youth as Serena traces the lines and stars, rubs a warm thumb against her skin.  
  
  
“Go on,” she smiles, and Bernie does, pours her love and pride and affection for her mother, her father, her children, her cousin; her family, her _blood_ into their stories, into how precious they were to her.  
  
  
And Serena, usually the fount of all conversation, can only sit back and listen in awe.  
  
  
“... and it was around the fourth or fifth time that Kate saved my life in the field that I decided that I would get a tattoo for her. _Not_ , as she would tell you if you ever met her, because I lost a bet. I mean, I felt like I owed her that much. She saved more than my literal life, if I’m honest. Spending time with her was… enlightening,” Bernie says, and Serena presses a kiss to Kate’s mark, pats Bernie’s shoulder for her to turn around.  
  
  
“Enlightening? How so?” 

  
Serena tugs Bernie closer, laces her hands together in the small of Bernie’s back in a loose hug. 

  
“We… talked about staying closeted, I guess. She’s been in a military-esque outfit as long as I have, had been married before, had a son, faced the same crap I did whilst rising up the ranks. She told me about her struggle, with her feelings for Osgood. It took her far less time than I did to come to the conclusion that staying hidden won’t do anyone any good. She was braver than I. Always has been, really,” Bernie muses, and Serena grins, pecks Bernie on the lips.  
  
  
“I’d like to meet Kate, one day. And Osgood, of course,” Serena says, in response to Bernie’s raised eyebrows.  
  
  
“I’d like that,” Bernie nods, and leans in for another kiss, smirks against Serena’s gasp as they are reminded, quite intimately, of their states of undress.  
  
  
“Serena…”  
  
  
“Mmm…” 

  
“I...I don’t think I can…”  
  
  
“Shh… Just lay down, my darling. I can wait,” Serena soothes, nudges at Bernie to lay on her side. Spoons up close behind her, tangles their legs and noses softly against Kate’s mark. Bernie takes Serena’s hand in her own, kisses the back of it, rests their joined hands on her sternum.  
  
  
“Sleep,” Serena whispers, into tousled gold.  
  
  
“...’nk you. Love you,” Bernie mumbles, and Serena curls tighter around her.  
  
  
“I love you too, you numpty. Goodnight.”  
  
  
Serena’s only reply is a gentle snore.  
  


* * *

It becomes a running joke between them, Serena snagging a free copy of the _Wyvern Mail_ every now and then to read out loud, rather dramatically (and sarcastically) how her day as a Libra was allegedly going to go. Bernie’s response is always the same: a scowl, and then a smirk when Serena fails to keep the pantomime up.  
  
  
“What a load of codswallop,” Serena would huff, tossing the paper aside.  
  
  
“Why read it, then?”   
  
  
Serena doesn’t usually dignify this with a reply, simply glares at Bernie.  
  
  
And Bernie would snuffle a laugh, swan up to Serena to grab her hands, place them on her sides.  
  
  
“I know, I know,” Bernie says, and Serena would grumpily tolerate a kiss, squeeze softly at the flesh at Bernie’s sides.  
  
  
“You need fattening up,” Serena would say, as she feels her lover’s ribs under her palms, even under layers of fabric, and Bernie would roll her eyes, mutter something about a quick metabolism.  
  
  
“Some people have all the luck,” Serena would huff in reply.  
  
  
Bernie tries not to add insult to injury but really, who could blame her for having a weakness for Pulses’ rather excellent cinnamon whirls?  
  
  
(she gallantly shares when Serena glares at the pastry, half in irritation, half in longing)  
  
  
On the nights where Serena has indulged in half a bottle too much of Shiraz and Bernie deigns to be the Responsible Adult for the evening, she is always vaguely amused to find Serena attempting to drunkenly sing various songs with references to stars in them as they stagger towards Bernie’s tiny little Mazda. Is oddly impressed by the vast repertoire of star-related tunes that Serena seems to know.  
  
  
Tonight, however, is not one of those nights.   
  
  
For Serena - Holby’s proverbial songbird, on any other day - is singing something out of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.  
  
  
Loudly.  
  
  
Now, Berenice Griselda Wolfe is tolerant of a great many things, but Andrew Lloyd Webber, he of _Phantom of the Opera_ fame (as she has heard him referred to, more than once) is one of her very few exceptions.  
  
  
(Bernie blames Marcus’ sister for that, having been forced to sit through one too many of her amateur dramatic group’s productions of the composer’s pieces.)  
  
  
Bernie sighs as Serena launches into song.  
  
  
_“On this night… On this night of a thousand stars; let me take you to heaven’s door; where the music of love’s guitar; plays for evermore…”  
  
  
_ “Serena, you’re drunk.” 

  
“I know, and isn’t it lovely,” Serena agrees, happily, and slings an arm about Bernie’s shoulders, staggers sideways slightly as she points at the night sky.  
  
  
“ _In the glow of those twinkling lights; we shall love through eternity; On this night in a million nights; fly away with me._ ”  
  
  
“Andrew Lloyd Webber has _much_ to answer for,” Bernie mutters darkly, as she heaves Serena upright, all but frogmarching her lover forward.  
  
  
“Well I _never!_ Berenice Wolfe, recognising a showtune?”   
  
  
Serena’s faux scandalised voice slips, rather inexplicably, into an accent right out of Texas, and Bernie growls.  
  
  
“How can I not, when you and Ellie decided watching Evita _,_ Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat _and_ Jesus Christ Superstar in a marathon session was a good idea? _Whilst singing along?_ Also, Marcus’ sister was… a terrible Evita.”  
  
  
Bernie pauses for breath, shuffles Serena forward a couple of steps.  
  
  
“And an even worse Mary Magdalene, now I think about it,” she adds, somewhat thoughtfully. Serena digs in her heels, wags an unsteady finger in Bernie’s face.  
  
  
“Hey hey hey, don’t hate on Lord Lloyd Webber; he might be a rubbish composer but he didn’t write half-catchy tunes, did he?”   
  
  
Bernie rolls her eyes and attempts to shuffle them forward. Fails, and sighs. Again.  
  
  
“Y’know, maybe for you, I might, just _might_ , start believing in horoscopes and star signs and astrology and whatnot twaddle. I mean - there must be some higher power that decided _hey! Those star-crossed, washed up, middle-aged women! They deserve a break!”  
  
  
_ Serena squints at Bernie and pokes her square in the sternum. Bernie, long-suffering and entirely too used to being thusly (wo)man-handled by Serena, simply grunts and glares.  
  
  
“Admittedly, using a roadside IED to blow you up to precipipape- no, no that’s not right- _precipitate!_ Yes that’s the word I want - the process of us falling in love was rather extreme, but hey ho, why be a star or a planet if you can’t be dramatic every now and again?”  
  
  
“Yes dear, very good, dear,” Bernie says, reasonably, as she rubs at her sore chest,  nudges Serena forward. She can just about see her car now.  
  
  
“Hey! I mean it, okay! You should be proud of yourself, Berenice Wolfe!”   
  
  
“Oh? And why is that, Ms Campbell?”  
  
  
“Because you have managed, somehow, over these past oh- three years? - to convince me that planetary alignments and random star arrangements are...are a thing. Sorcery, I say,” Serena declares, and Bernie smirks, fishes in her coat pocket for her car keys.  
  
  
“What can I say, I like to think I can be convincing when I want to be,” Bernie mutters, fumbles for the passenger door.  
  
  
“I think we can both attest to _just how convincing you can be_ , Ms Wolfe,” Serena purrs, and suddenly Bernie finds herself pinned to her car, Serena mouthing wet kisses up her neck, her knee nudging between Bernie’s legs.  
  
  
Bernie moves to respond, but Serena suddenly _giggles_ , and pulls away, her arms looped about Bernie’s neck, her eyes bright in the gleam of moonlight.  
  
  
“I just remembered the rest of the song!”  
  
  
Bernie groans in despair into the quick kiss Serena claims.  
  
  
“ _I never dreamed that a kiss could be as sweet as this; but now I know that it can_ ; _I used to wander alone without a love of my own; I was a desperate man_ …”  
  
  
Serena pauses, mutters “ _WO-man_ ” and giggles again, her weight warm and flush against Bernie.  
  
  
“ _But all my grief disappeared and all the sorrow I’d feared; wasn’t there anymore; on that magical day when you first came my way, mi amor._ ”  
  
  
Bernie cannot help but grin, mutter “ _engine been growling or whining?_ ” under her breath.  
  
  
Serena brushes Bernie’s fringe out her eyes and clasps her cheeks in both hands, gazing directly into her lover’s eyes as she sings the last verse.  
  
  
“ _On this night…”  
  
  
_ A quick kiss.  
  
  
“ _On this night…”  
  
  
_ Another kiss.  
  
  
“ _On this night of a thousand stars; let me take you to heaven’s door; where the music of love’s guitars…”  
  
  
_ Serena pauses, takes a deep, dramatic breath, presses her forehead to Bernie’s.  
  
  
“ _Plays for evermore,”_ she sings, softly, and Bernie draws her close for a longer kiss, hugs her close for a precious few moments.  
  
  
“C’mon, then. Let’s get you home, Evita” she murmurs, and Serena smiles up at her, sloppy and happy and so very much in love.  
  
  
“Whatever you say, stargazer.”

 

* * *

Serena buys them matching rings graved with their signs, intricately carved in a twined motif for their fifth Christmas together. A (nearly) comical panic on Bernie’s part and a flustered explanation from Serena that _no, they’re not a proposal but- did you want to - I thought you were done with that; uh-_ later, they look at each other and burst out laughing.  
  
  
“Oh you. I don’t think I’ll ever quite get over your laugh,” Serena murmurs, as she scoots closer, giggles at the last honk-bark Bernie wheezes out.  
  
  
Bernie flushes and picks up the box, takes the ring out with trembling fingers.   
  
  
“Serena…”  
  
  
“Yes, dear?”  
  
  
“Isn’t this a little...small?”  
  
  
“How very astute, dear,” Serena says, dryly, and plucks the ring from her lover’s hand.  
  
  
“They’re pinky rings, Bernie. Not engagement rings. Not yet, anyway,” Serena mumbles, self consciously, as she slides the platinum ring onto Bernie’s left pinkie.  
  
  
“I see,” Bernie murmurs, and moves to do the same for her lover.  
  
  
“Where did you get them made? The design’s lovely.”  
  
  
“Oh, a friend of a friend recommended someone in London.”  
  
  
“London? When did you get the time to go down to London?”  
  
  
“The weekend you were with Cam? Hiking in the Peak District?”   
  
  
“But that was ages ago! Almost...a year ago?”  
  
  
“Yes,” Serena says, simply, and kisses her.  
  
  


* * *

Bernie thinks about Serena’s gift daily. When she takes it off at the beginning of the shift, when she puts it back on at the end. When she passes Serena in their office, spies the glint of platinum sliding next to the pendants from Serena’s father. When she scrubs in to surgery and looks at the faint tan lines left from the band, when she glances over and sees the same on Serena.  
  
  
Decides, quite suddenly between bites of a cinnamon whirl one fine day in their office, that she would have Serena’s sign on her skin.  
  
  
“But where…” Bernie muses, spends her days in the greenhouse picturing the constellation on various parts of herself.   
  
  
“Get it on your wrist,” Kate says, over a tumbler of whiskey, when Bernie poses the question to her.  
  
  
“Or over your heart,” Osgood opines, sips from her glass of wine.   
  
  
“Ever the romantic, Osgood?” Kate holds her free hand out and Osgood takes it, beams as she laces their fingers together.  
  
  
“How about on your bum?” Kate teases, and Bernie chokes on her whiskey, glares at her cousin.  
  
  
“Kate!”   
  
  
“What? Would certainly make discovering it memorable, for her. Or maybe your inner thigh?”  
  
  
Bernie glares harder.  
  
  
“Ooh, what about the back of your neck? That way people’ll only see it when you put your hair up.”  
  
  
“Quite apart from _ow,_ the only time I really put my hair up is when I’m in theatre and honestly, that’s not the audience I want for the tattoo.”  
  
  
“Your hip?”   
  
  
“Underside of a breast,” Kate declares, and silence immediately follows as all three of them instinctively wince.  
  
  
“Yeah, maybe not,” Bernie mutters, takes another sip of whiskey.  
  
  
“Oh, we give up, Bernie. Ask your tattoo artist?”  
  
  
Bernie cocks her head, squints at her cousin.  
  
  
“That… is not a half bad option,” she murmurs. 

 

* * *

And that is how, on a bright morning in March, Bernie finds herself in the familiar little shop in Stepney.  
  
  
“Major! It’s been a while,” the woman says, leans forward to buss cheeks with Bernie.  
  
  
“Hello,” Bernie says, warmly.  
  
  
“So… What brings you to my door this time? Should I be giving you my condolences? Or…?”   
  
  
Bernie shakes her head and shoves her hands into her coat pockets.  
  
  
“Oho, what is this? Not another cousin?”  
  
  
“Not...not blood, this time. Not a death, either.”   
  
  
The woman nods, cocks her head and waits for Bernie to muster the words for her request.  
  
  
“I… uh… _ursa minor_ …” Bernie mumbles, and gestures at the woman’s shoulder. She looks at Bernie in confusion for three excruciating moments before brightening, realisation dawning on her.  
  
  
“Oh. _Oh!_ ”  
  
  
Bernie blushes.

  
“Come. Come through, you _must_ tell me all about the lucky lady,” the woman chirps, and leads Bernie through the beaded curtain, pushes her gently down into an armchair, pours her a mug of tea.  
  
  
“Well…” Bernie hedges. 

  
“What’s her sign?” the woman asks, settles cross-legged into an armchair across from Bernie.  
  
  
“She’s a Libra.”   
  
  
“Ah, well suited to you, then.”  
  
  
Bernie smiles shyly, tucks an errant strand of blonde behind her ear, flexes her interlaced fingers over warm china.  
  
  
“I really love her,” she confesses, shyly peeks through her fringe at the woman.   
  
  
“I can tell, since you’re here to… get her sign inked?”  
  
  
Bernie nods.  
  
  
“So she isn’t blood… but she _is_ family. She’s home.”  
  
  
Bernie nods again and smiles, relishes the inextinguishable warmth in her chest as she thinks of her lover.  
  
  
“Yes. All that, and more, to me.”   
  
  
“I’m happy for you,” the woman smiles, and sets about sketching out Serena’s constellation, pauses thoughtfully to think.  
  
  
“Where do you want it, then? Doesn’t really go where the others are, does it?”  
  
  
“I thought you could advise me on that, actually.”  
  
  
“Hmm…”  

  
Bernie sighs, fiddles with the ring on her left pinkie.  
  
  
Is struck suddenly with inspiration.  
  
  
“How about here?” She asks, slips off the ring, holds up her finger.  
  
  
“On your finger?” 

  
The woman’s raised eyebrow telegraphs all her scepticism and Bernie laughs, opens her right palm to show her the ring.  
  
  
“Oh, that’s a nice design,” the woman says, holding it up to the light, examining the design engraved on the ring’s inside.  
  
  
“Yes, yes it is.”  
  
  
“So let me get this straight. You want to get a tiny, teeny tattoo where you wear the ring?”   
  
  
Bernie shrugs.  
  
  
“Seems discreet enough, and something i’d look at everyday, since I have to take off the ring at the beginning of my shift and then put it on again at the end. This way, I carry Serena with me even into theatre, when I scrub in,” she says, and blushes at the open stare the woman gives her.  
  
  
“Wow. Yeah. Ok, I see why. It’s gonna hurt, though. And might take a little longer to heal, but you should be fine, eh?”  
  
  
Bernie considers the question, thinks about Serena; her equal, her partner, her _love.  
  
  
_ “For her, I will be,” she declares, slips the ring onto its temporary home on her right hand.  
  
  
The woman smiles.   
  
  
“Let’s get started, then." 

 

* * *

Bernie goes home with her finger wrapped in clear film and a grin on her face. Serena spots the anomalous smile immediately, frowns at the uncharacteristic _joie de vivre_ emanating from her lover.  
  
  
“What’ve you done now? Oh my word. Don’t tell me you’ve gone and gotten us a _puppy._ Again.”  
  
  
Serena’s disdain is obvious as she peers around Bernie, nudges her aside to make sure she hadn’t brought home yet another stray dog with mournful, irresistible dark eyes.  
  
  
“No no, nothing like that. I learnt my lesson, after Cody.”  
  
  
“Good,” Serena harrumphs, and accepts Bernie’s soothing hug, her laugh snuffled into Serena’s shoulder.  
  
  
“So? What is it? What’s got you happier than Hanssen and a thousand piece jigsaw illustration of the battle of Ragnarok?  
  
  
“You,” Bernie says, slips her arms about Serena’s waist, leans in for a kiss.  
  
  
“Ooh, you smooth talker, you. Sensible answer, but you’ve had me for a while now. So what’s changed?”   
  
  
Serena’s reply is dry despite the sparkle in her eye.  
  
  
“Not much, apart from...this,” Bernie says, shyly.  
  
  
She pulls back, wags her be-wrapped left pinky in Serena’s face.  
  
  
“Is that…”  
  
  
“Yep.” 

  
Bernie hums in happiness as Serena gapes like a fish.  
  
  
“But...But…”   
  
  
“Words would be useful, _Serena_ ,” Bernie sing-songs, and her adoption of her lover’s favourite admonishment snaps Serena out of it.  
  
  
“I thought they were only for family? For blood?”   
  
  
Serena’s voice is hoarse with emotion, and Bernie nuzzles in close, presses her forehead to her lover’s. Smiles, and tries to say with her eyes what she feels in the very marrow of her.  
  
  
“You are,” she says, simply, and kisses her.  
  
  
Serena shudders in her arms, eyes dark and wet and wide with amazement.  
  
  
“You are. All of that, and so much more to me, _Serena_.”   
  
  
“Bernie, I-”  
  
  
“I love you,” Bernie breathes, and kisses her again, and again, until Serena whimpers and pulls away, drags them to sit on the sofa.  
  
  
“Why there?” Serena asks, when they’ve calmed down a bit.   
  
  
“Why on my pinkie?”  
  
  
Serena nods.  
  
  
“Well, that’s where we wear our rings, no?”  
  
  
Another nod.  
  
  
“But we have to take them off during our shifts, correct?”  
  
  
“You know we do,” Serena murmurs, laces her left hand with Bernie’s right.  
  
  
“This way...I carry you with me wherever I go, Serena. Even into theatre. I figured it was discreet enough. But still visible, y’know? To anyone that knew.”  
  
  
“I see,” Serena says, faintly, stares down with a furrowed brow at Bernie’s left hand.  
  
  
“Do you… do you not like it?”  
  
  
Bernie is struck with a sudden trepidation, a quivering fear that she’d _fucked up, you stupid, stupid idiot, she didn’t ask for this, didn’t expect-  
  
  
_ “What time does your tattoo artist friend close for the day?”   
  
  
Serena’s voice breaks Bernie’s train of thought and she blinks in confusion.  
  
  
“Close for the day?”   
  
  
“Yes, as in - ceases business? Stops doing the things with needles and ink?”  
  
  
“Uh- seven or eight? I think?”  
  
  
“Good. C’mon,” Serena says, standing up with purpose. Tugs Bernie up by their still-joined hands.  
  
  
“Serena, what-” 

  
“Looks like you just persuaded me to join the club, Berenice Wolfe.”  
  
  
“ _What?”  
  
  
_ “Well, we are equals, aren’t we? Seems only reasonable, really,” Serena says, sensibly, and the unspoken _come on, Bernie, you’re not thick, you know what I mean_ is more than implied.  
  
  
“Serena, you don’t have to-” 

  
“I know. I want to,” Serena says, softly, looks into Bernie’s eyes with such deep affection and honest emotion that all Bernie can do is swallow and nod.  
  
  
“I’ll get the car,” Bernie says, shakily.

 

And that is how, at the tender age of fifty-six, Serena Wendy Campbell gets her first tattoo. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this! Sorry for the rubbish ending, my muse rather ran out on me at some point.
> 
> P.S. The song from _Evita_ that Serena sings is _"On This Night of a Thousand Stars_ and can be found [here ](https://youtu.be/H79X5iQLxTk?t=33s).
> 
> For the record, I don't hate _all_ of Andrew Lloyd Webber's work. In fact, I do think Evita is rather a brilliant piece of theatre. As is Joseph and Jesus Christ Superstar. And to a lesser extent, The Phantom of the Opera. Will always have a soft spot for that one, for...reasons (in case you couldn't tell, yes, the username stems from a teenage obsession with that musical).

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Sorry I suck at summaries.


End file.
